Insanity
by MaliciousGod
Summary: Beyond Birthday's thoughts at the moment of A's death. His past, his present, his future and his own insanity. One-shot


It has always been there. Since I was but a child it had always been there, just under the surface. What is it, you're wondering? What is it that I keep hidden inside me?

_Insanity. _

Yes, I'm sure everyone has some level of insanity somewhere deep inside them, but mine was barely contained. Cause you see, insanity is a curious thing; it has a mind of its own. It can choose when to show itself and when to keep itself hidden. It's a thing I've been dealing with all my life. It started small; when I was young I would capture butterflies. Apparently, butterflies were the most beautiful of all insects but as I studied it in my hand, I could never see it. I could never truly appreciate the beauty of anything, it was lost on me. But after searching for the beauty and finding nothing but natural occurrences created by evolution, I would slowly tear off a single wing from the butterfly and release it again. It put a smile on my face to watch the small creature struggle to fly again. It amused me. I knew it wouldn't survive long, when a butterfly is injured it has no chance of living. Its only option is death. I wonder if it knew it was dying.

But the insanity couldn't be contained forever; it wasn't until now that I discover what would send me over the edge. What would turn me into that psychotic man laughing in a straight jacket inside the padded room of an insane asylum. Because I was looking at it. For a split second, before the devastation came over me, some part of me knew this was it. This was where my rationality would completely dissipate from my body.

Beyond Birthday, it was a strange name; nothing I would have chosen for myself. But regardless, it was mine. It could not be changed. It was the name I would see over the pale face in the mirror whenever I chose to look there. Beyond Birthday, me, they were one and the same. They were both the raven-haired boy in the mirror and they were interchangeable. I could use either and the person I'm speaking to would understand I was referring to myself. But usually, I simply go by B. It's simple, easy to remember and it just seems to fit me. I have once been asked if B stood for beautiful, I replied by telling them that B stood for beast. I didn`t hear much from her since then.

I have killed before. I have experienced that delicious feeling you get as you stab the knife through the chest of a living being. Her name was Alice, I plunged the knife into her not once, not twice but eighteen times. Yes, I`ve ran over that scene in my head more times than could be counted. Not once did I feel the slightest trace of remorse. Just a vague amusement. Perhaps it was the memory of that that kept me from doing it again. Perhaps the killing of Alice was what kept my mind rational. I`ll never know.

Anonymous Alley, the name I had seen so many times was gone. For a moment, I wonder if it was truly him. If it was truly the body of A that was lying before me and not some impersonator. But, although I normally recognise people by name, I know I could recognise his face anywhere. It was him, lying in the pool of blood. The person who I had shared a room and an unusual name with was now just a corpse. If it were anyone but him, I would likely walk away, unaffected. But it _was _him. He was dead. Death, the thing that had always intrigued me, that brought me comfort, had turned on me. It had taken my best friend, no, no more denial. It had taken my love. Yes, that sounds much more right. That`s what he was. He was the one thing keeping me in reality. There was the second of realisation, which faded into the second of devastation which suddenly snapped. _I _suddenly snapped. I slowly step over to the body and do something I`ve never done before. I lean down and dip my finger into the still warm red liquid. I bring it back up to my face and stare at it for a few seconds. Watch it drip down off my finger, creating small splatters on the ground.

_Drip... Drip..._

I lean my face forward.

_Drip... Drip..._

I stick out my tongue.

_Drip... Drip..._

I lick the blood off my finger. It tasted... delicious. Beautiful. I repeat the motion again and again until it`s not enough. I bring my entire body down and lick it off the floor, savouring each coppery taste. Swallowing the thing that had killed my love. The liquid that had bled out the life of Anonymous Alley. I would have liked to be alone at this moment, would have liked to have no witnesses there to watch this moment. But I was not alone, someone had seen it all. Someone had been silently standing in the doorway as my sanity seeped out of me.

His name was Mihael Keehl. Of course, I was the only one that knew this. The name floated over his head each time I saw him. We were never friends, we rarely even spoke but we held some special bond. I feel that at that time I was the only one who truly knew him. Who truly understood him. Or perhaps I just believe this because we share the bond of names. I am the only one who knows his true name. Perhaps there are one or two other people on this earth that know the name Mihael Keehl, but none of them also know Mello. The _true _Mihael Keehl. And the people who do know his name are no longer part of his life. They mean nothing to him. He renounced the name of Keehl many years ago and replaced it with the name that he would be known as the rest of his life: Mello. A name is so much more than how people address you, it _defines _you. And Mello can keep that name, he can love that false name because the name he was given is not something he sees every time he looks in the mirror. He can leave that name behind, forget it. It was our secret, a secret he didn't know I held. Mello had always intrigued me, he was different. He didn't try to blend into the crowd, nor did he try to stand out. He stood out with no effort. You see, Mello could have been friends with anyone. He had his pick of all the students, could have had them all if he so chose. But he didn't. He chose Matt, the boy who couldn't put down a DS to save his life. The boy who could care less about the things going on around him and refused to even go outside. He would spend his days in his room with a console and he was happy with that. And Mello was happy with accompanying him. He didn't need attention, he was happy with Matt even if Matt's focus was on Mario. I never really cared for the boy but it's not my opinion that matters. But Matt wasn't the only one he cared about, Matt was the only one in Mello's positive light but he also had someone he despised with every fibre of his being.

_Near. _

Just the mention of that name would make his skin crawl, that person could send him into a full blown rage without the slightest of efforts. That was the person that he believed tormented him daily when really, it was the other way around. Mello is a bully. He bullies Near every day and he believes the motivation is revenge. But really, Mello is just a sore loser. Near is a good winner and he is _always_ the good winner. Perhaps if he rubbed it in Mello's face that he always wins he might not hate him as much. It's Near's lack of reaction to it that really disturbs and enrages Mello. But hate really isn't all that different from love and I believe that if Near were in danger, Mello wouldn't hesitate to help. But these are just hypothesises I've gained from knowing him so long, they could be entirely wrong. But, I'm sure if Matt were the one above him, he would probably hate him too.

_Now, enough about Mello._

_Back to me._

Beyond Birthday will no longer be just myself. Beyond Birthday will become a household name. Everyone will know it. Just the mention of the name will make a person quake with fear. I will be a killer. The most cunning and vicious killer in history. No, nobody will know my name, because I will never be caught. They will know me by another name, a name they will choose on their own. Like Jack the Ripper, his name was never Jack but people still know him by that name. Most people don't know that his true name was Walter Sickert. Yes, they would pick a name for me. I would be the silent killer, the one who never leaves any traces, impossible to track down. And after awhile, I would kill myself. I would disguise myself as a victim and even after my death I would still be feared. I would have the world in my hand and I wouldn't even need to be alive. The murderer that was never found, that might just be hidden in the darkness, waiting for the perfect moment to begin killing again. But in reality, I would be spending my days burning in Hell. With a smile, I would share a jar of strawberry jam with Walter Sickert as the people above me fruitlessly search for the killer gripping all of society in fear.

I hope Hell has strawberry jam.


End file.
